“You’re lazy, Larry Burnham!” cried Tom, hotly. “A fine football player you’ll make if you don’t wake up and put a little ginger into that big form of yours.”
“Softly—softly, Tom!” laughed Dave.
“I’ve been talking to a big softy, I know,” growled Tom, thoroughly disgusted, “and——”
“Hold on!” interrupted Larry. His anger began to rise. “Fire off a little more talk like that, an’ I’ll tell you what I think of you.”
“Go ahead, then!” snapped Tom.
“For goodness’ sake, fellows, cut it all out,” put in Dave. “I’ll prescribe a good supper and a couple of hours rest——”
“Don’t be afraid, Larry,” persisted Tom.
“Afraid of what?” jeered Larry—“you? See here, Tom Clifton”—the big fellow rose to his feet—“believe me, I’m tired of your always pitchin’ into me. Do you understand?”
“I should worry,” said Tom. “The idea of your talking like that after all the mean things you’ve said about the Rambler Club! Didn’t you nearly die with laughter when that idiot of a Teddy Banes made silly remarks? Oh, no!” The color mounted to his face. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
“I don’t sport a chip on my shoulder, but I’ll take just so much an’ no more!” exclaimed the blond lad.